I've Been Trying to Say
by ablondeinaunionjack
Summary: In the city of Ankh-Morpork, everyone has their little secrets, but what happens when they spill out? Everything except the plot whatever that might be belongs to Terry Pratchett.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N: I meant this to be a one-shot, but it seems to have developed into a story by itself. I apologize if there's anything wrong: I don't have a Discworld map, and I have forgotten how much the Librarian weighs. If you spot anything, please tell me and I'll alter it. **

"So, Carrot" began Commander Vimes cautiously.

"Yes, Mister Vimes?" replied Carrot innocently.

Vimes looked up at the impressive Unseen University buildings in order to avoid explaining what he meant. He was never sure how to approach these matters with Carrot, who either misunderstood completely, or had no idea what was being discussed. With a cough, he turned back to the captain's big, honest face.

"You and Angua…how's that working out?"

"We're doing well. As long as I keep the window open at that time of the month, we're fine. Why do you ask?"

"It's just…" Vimes looked away into the rain again. "Have you been having thoughts about…settling down?"

Carrot looked across at the turgid Ankh. Little puddles of rainwater were beginning to form on the crusty surface, showing tiny reflections of the buildings it was passing.

"Yes, Mister Vimes. I have."

They walked on in silence for a moment.

"Have you told her?"

"No."

They walked a little further. Vimes stopped suddenly and turned to face his captain.

"Look, Carrot, what I'm trying to say is…you're a good lad. You like Angua, she likes you. But…if you start talking about settling down, you're going to worry her. I don't want her running off again, and I don't want you following her if she does. I can't afford to lose both of you: remember what happened last time? It was havoc." He took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say is you shouldn't race into anything."

Carrot looked away into the rain.

"Carrot?"

He turned back to Vimes.

"We've got the chicken situation under control. I leave the window open, so she can get out at night. We've arranged everything perfectly."

Vimes rubbed his face wearily.

"But-" he began.

"Ook!"

He looked further down the alleyway they had walked into, and saw the Librarian knuckling along after someone. He glanced at Carrot, and they both ran after him.

Lady Sybil lifted Earl Mountmarch Proud Scale the Second out of his pen and patted his head.

"Don't worry. Mummy's here. Now, what's the matter with you today?" she asked.

Earl Mountmarch Proud Scale the Second looked pitifully up at her and whimpered. She looked down at it and sighed.

"Hang on a moment."

Putting the dragon down, she patted her fireproof apron pockets and extracted a round, grey pill.

"Here you go, Mountmarch."

She took a lump of coal from her bucket and hid the tablet behind it. The swamp dragon watched the coal eagerly, his tail swishing from side to side. Lady Sybil held it above his head, and then dropped it into his open mouth, before clamping that mouth shut with her flameproof gloves. Earl Mountmarch Proud Scale the Second looked puzzled for a moment, before swallowing and shaking his ears in surprise. Sybil took her hand away.

"Well, thank goodness for that!"

At that moment, Earl Mountmarch's tail and ears went down as he lifted his head and looked at her with sorrowful eyes. Then, just once, he gulped. Sybil threw herself to the ground, protecting her stomach with her arms as the dragon exploded.

"Daft bugger" she sniffed, raising her head.

The other dragons were sitting up, looking around to see what had happened. With some effort, she pulled herself onto her feet and assessed the damage. It was a little messy, but nothing that a day's scrubbing couldn't sort out. Unfortunately, Sybil was not in any condition to do so. She glanced down at her stomach, which was rather bigger than it normally was, and sighed. Sam Vimes had been so happy about young Sam, and always made the effort to come home and read to him; but it was hard enough breaking the news the first time. He was hardly ever home, apart from those precious hours in the evening spent with his son, and when he was, he was too tired to take anything in. Sybil sighed again, more heavily this time, and went inside to rest, leaving the remains of Earl Mountmarch Proud Scale the Second for another day.

Vimes and Carrot raced down the alleyway, their boots spraying cold rainwater over the cobbles. The Librarian was still ahead of them, ooking occasionally as he narrowly avoided obstacles.

"Where are we going, Carrot?" queried Vimes as he ran.

Carrot looked straight in front of him.

"The Shades. I think. Sweetheart Lane, to be exact" he replied.

Vimes swore.

"Well, let's see if we can get him before he gets there."

With some difficulty, they managed to increase their speed and soon were only a few steps behind the Librarian.

"What is it?" panted Vimes. "What did he do?"

"Ook. Ook ook _eek_!" responded the Librarian, sounded very agitated.

"A book, eh? What is it this time?"

"Ook ook ook!"

"Really? How very peculiar. Anything else?"

"Ook-ook`s ook!"

"Why would anyone want Rincewind's hat?"

The Librarian shrugged.

"Ook."

They turned a corner and were met by a gang. This consisted of four men, each scowling horribly. The book thief was standing in front of them, obviously terrified. The shortest man standing in the centre took in their uniforms, and a slow grin spread over his face.

"Well, well, well. Watch, is it? What're you doing down here?"

He saw the Librarian, who was wearing his badge on a special collar.

"Got a bloody monkey in there now, have you? Fancy that. Well, he'll fit in with the rest of you." He turned away: his second mistake. "Get them, lads."

"Ook!"

The leader whirled around just in time to see 300lbs of enraged orangutan heading towards him. The Librarian grabbed hold of him, and soon he was bouncing upside down on the pavement. Nobody was quite sure how the Librarian managed to over-turn people so easily: if you were watching, you couldn't make it out properly, and if you were the victim you were unlikely to remember it when you woke up. Once he was satisfied that the leader was well and truly chastened, the Librarian (who was very definitely not a monkey) dropped him onto the wet cobblestones. The unconscious man's men were watching, hypnotized by the scene in front of them.

"Ook? Ook ook? Ook _eek_!"

As one man, they backed away, leaving the book thief room to escape. Unfortunately, before he was able to make use of this freedom, he was knocked out by Carrot. He slumped to the ground, the book sliding out of his fingers. The captain picked it up and read the title, with some difficulty.

"_Eldritch Lace-making_? He stole a book on Eldritch Lace-making?"

Vimes knelt down by the body and felt around in his pockets. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a tatty piece of card with a few lines printed neatly on it.

"Arnold `Bagsy' Baggins" he read aloud. "Grade 2 thief. Well, at least he's a Guild member. But don't your lot have a deal with them?"

"Ook" the Librarian agreed.

"Then why break into the Unseen University illegally, and steal a book on eldritch lace-making and a totally un-magical wizard's hat?" mused Vimes.

He looked across at the pointy red hat that had fallen with its captor suspiciously. It did nothing: it just sat there, informing all passers-by that it belonged to a `Wizzard.' Cautiously, he picked it up. Nothing happened. Feeling slightly daft for being afraid of a hat, Vimes stood up, placing Rincewind's hat under his arm.

"Take this one back to Pseudopolis Yard, will you Carrot? I'll take this back to its rightful owner."

"Ook."

"We have to keep the book for now: its evidence."

"_Ook_."

"Yes, I know it belongs in the Library, but we need to look at it. See if it has any marked or missing pages, or if anything has been ripped out-"

"_Ook!_"

The Librarian snatched _Eldritch Lace-making _from Carrot and hugged it to him protectively. Vimes sighed.

"All right. Can you come back to the Yard to make a statement?"

"Ook" the Librarian assented.

"Good. Right, I'd better take this back to that Junior Librarian of yours." Vimes shifted the hat to a more comfortable position. "Carrot, take Mr. Baggins back to the cells, and take a statement from the Librarian. I'll be back in an hour or so." He glanced at his watch. It would have to be an hour: he was due back at his house half an hour after that.

"Will do, Mister Vimes" said Carrot cheerfully.

He lifted the fallen man under one arm, and he and the Librarian ambled off towards Pseudopolis Yard. With another suspicious glance at the hat, Vimes walked towards the Unseen University, the rain still battering the city.


	2. Chapter 2

"What is your name?"

"Ook _ook_."

"Yes, I know, but I have to make it official."

The Librarian shrugged.

"Ook."

"Occupation?"

"Ook ook."

Angua watched gloomily as Carrot interrogated the Librarian. She rubbed her eyes: she had been out all night `undercover', as Carrot would put it. She sighed. It was best not to think about Carrot now: ye gods, she'd been thinking about him for too long. With a sigh, she forced her way through the crowd to the canteen, where she ordered a cup of thick black coffee. She then sat down at one of the rickety tables and took a sip.

"Bad night?"

Angua looked up to see Cheri Littlebottom and Sally von Humpeding, who had just addressed her.

"You could say" she replied.

Sally and Cheri sat down opposite her.

"What shift are you doing?" asked the dwarf.

"I'm on in an hour. Plaza of Broken Moons, with...with Carrot."

Cheri was about to speak, but Sally put a hand on her arm in warning.

"Things not going so well?" enquired the vampire delicately.

Angua shrugged helplessly.

"Oh, I don't know. I think..." she dropped her voice. "I think Carrot's going to propose to me."

Cheri gaped.

"That's wonderful!" she declared aloud.

Heads turned in their direction, and she slumped down.

"Sorry" she whispered. "But isn't that good news?"

Angua looked across at Sally.

"I'm a werewolf. He's human. It'll _never_ work, no matter how hard we try, or how much we want it."

"What are you going to do?" queried Sally.

Angua looked away. She could see Carrot through the open doors, sitting at his desk amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life in the Watch.

"You're not going to...Angua, you _can't_. Mister Vimes needs you; Carrot needs you. You can't run away" said Sally.

She reached across and grabbed the werewolf's wrist, forcing Angua to look back at her.

"What else can I do? I can't stay here, not if Carrot's planning something."

"You have to. You know he'd only go chasing after you again. Please, Angua. Don't" pleaded Sally.

Angua downed her coffee and stood up abruptly.

"I have to go now. See you after my shift."

"Angua!"

She ignored Sally, and walked out into the city, leaving a bewildered Cheri and a concerned Sally in the Watch house. After all that, she needed some air.

Vimes knocked on the Unseen University doors, Rincewind's hat still tucked under his arm. Eventually, the door was opened by a young maid, who took in Vimes' battered uniform, and made to shut the door.

"Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh, and Commander of the Night Watch" declared Vimes pompously, sticking his foot in the gap.

The maid looked at him doubtfully. He didn't blame her: despite Sybil's best efforts, he had hung on to his old uniform, which was definitely beginning to show it's age. Raising his other hand, Vimes showed her his badge. She nodded uncertainly, and let him in.

"Which way is the library?" he enquired.

"Up those stairs. But I don't think you should go up there unless the Librarian has confirmed it..." she trailed off.

"I just came from him now." Vimes held up the hat. "I'm giving this back to the Assistant Librarian."

The maid shrugged, and showed him up the impressive staircase. He soon reached the heavy doors of the Library, from which came the quiet rustling of books. Vimes cleared his throat and knocked.

"Hello?" quavered a voice from the inside.

"Commander Vimes, Night Watch. Is that the Assistant Librarian?"

There was a pause.

"And if it is?"

"I have your hat."

The door was unbolted at once, and Rincewind looked out.

"May I come in?" asked Vimes.

"Yes, yes, of course."

The door was opened wider to admit him, and then he was swallowed up into L-Space.

"May I have it?" asked Rincewind.

"What? Oh, yes."

Vimes handed the hat over absent-mindedly. Rincewind hung onto it as though it was the only thing that was between him and death: which is was, to a wizard; or even a `Wizzard.' He brushed it down delicately and placed it on his head, holding it on with his hands as though to convince himself that it was really there. Then he remembered his guest, and turned back.

"What did you want?" queried Rincewind.

"I found a book on Eldritch Lace-Making with your hat, which came from this library. I'd like to have a look at the shelf it came from" answered Vimes.

Rincewind nodded, and trotted briskly down the corridors formed by bookshelves.

"Eldritch Lace-Making...let me see..."

He turned a corner sharply, with Vimes following. After a few more turns, they reached a shelf full of books on that subject. There was no gap.

"How very strange. I wonder...perhaps somebody put the book in the wrong place."

Rincewind looked around, horror in his eyes.

"A book in the wrong place? The Librarian would _never_ let that happen!" he declared fervently.

"Well, can't you just look around and find the gap in another shelf, if there is one?" suggested Vimes.

"This is L-space we're talking about here. It could be _anywhere_!"

"I need to know what this thief was trying to steal. I very much doubt it was a book on eldritch lace-making."

Rincewind shrugged helplessly.

"I'll have a look."

He dug about in one of his spacious pockets, and produced a ball of string.

"Here, tie this to that bar, will you?"

Vimes took the proffered string and attached it to one of the bars which protected people from the books, and then they wandered into the dark labyrinth of the Inner Library.

"Where should we be looking, then?" asked Vimes.

"I don't know! You just told me to look for a space!"

Rincewind was always jumpy in the back of the Library. You were never sure if you were looking at a normal dictionary or a wild, unpredictable thesaurus. He turned a corner and bumped into a tall, dark figure.

HELLO

Rincewind put his hand over his eyes.

"Not you again! What are you doing here now?"

Death shrugged.

JUST PASSING THROUGH

He grinned worryingly.

DON'T WORRY. IT'S NOT YOUR TIME. YET

"Go away!"

Rincewind flapped at him as though he'd move.

NOW, NOW. I DO HAVE FEELINGS, YOU KNOW.

Death stalked away from him. He was very good at that.

BY THE WAY, YOU WON'T FIND THAT GAP ANYWHERE HERE. ITS TWO AISLES DOWN, THIRD SHELF, FOURTH BOOK. WELL, WHERE THE FOURTH BOOK SHOULD BE.

Death grinned again, disconcertingly, and stalked off.

"Thank you!" called Rincewind after him.

DON'T MENTION IT.

Vimes heard none of this altercation, as he was looking down a different aisle.

"Commander Vimes! I've found it!"

He followed Rincewind's voice until he found him, looking at a gap in a bookshelf.

"Good. What's that?"

Vimes reached out and brushed against the spine of a thick black book, cleaning dust away from the gold title. Rincewind froze, and whimpered a little.

"What is it?" repeated Vimes, not understanding the relevance.

On the spine of the book, in neat, golden Gothic script, it said:

**The Octavo: Explained! **

Then, in smaller letters:

**The Original Dark Spells, in an easy to understand format for students.**

Vimes swore.

"They want to do this? In my city?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Minimog16uk and Nimbus Llewelyn for reviewing.**

"Ook?"

"_The Octavo: Explained_."

"_Ook?_"

"Yes. Can you get it down?"

"Ook."

The Librarian shrugged resignedly. Vimes had gone back to Pseudopolis Yard, leaving Rincewind to mark the place where he had found the gap, and fetched the Librarian back to the Library. He had to open the book: as Librarian, he had the only key to the hefty padlock which kept it shut. He wasn't aware of the book as such; but as Librarian of a huge magical library, and, indeed, L-Space, he had the _virtual_ key to every virtual book. In actual fact, there was only one key, but it seemed to stretch itself and mould itself into a suitable shape to fit the lock once you inserted it. It was rather puzzling; but the Librarian, as an unexpected simian, was used to strange magical occurrences, and he barely paid any attention to them anymore.

"Ook ook."

The Librarian took the key from the chain hanging around what couldn't really be called a neck, but couldn't be described as anything else, and lifted the book down from the shelf. It quivered in his hands, and he looked back anxiously at Vimes.

"Ook ook?"

"Yes, I need to look at it."

"Ook" he shook his head.

"This is Watch business" replied Vimes tensely.

"Ook _ook_!"

The Librarian held up his badge on a collar, and tried to stand to attention.

"Ook ook ook eek!"

"I have to know why somebody wants it. This could be important!"

"Ook ook! Ook eek ook! Ook ook-ook!"

Vimes rubbed his face wearily.

"All right. Do you have any idea what's in there?"

The Librarian shrugged.

"Ook ook-ook. Ook _ook _ook ook!" he waved his arms to show how incredibly vast L-space was.

"Okay, okay...what if you didn't open it fully? If you just peeked?"

The orang-utan paused, and then nodded.

"Ook ook."

He inserted the magic key into the padlock, and turned it carefully. It clicked. With very careful leathery fingers, he opened _The Octavo: Explained_.

"Ook!"

"What is it?" asked Vimes, moving to his side.

"Ook ook!"

The page was blank. The Librarian flicked through it, but it was all the same. The book was empty.

In a smoky den in the Shades, a meeting was being held, which Vimes and the Librarian would have been very interested. There were four people in the room: three sitting at a table in the centre, and one sitting on a chair in the corner. A gas-lamp sat in the centre of the table, casting heavy shadows around the room, and showing the clouds of smoke coming from the man sitting closest to the door. He was puffing on a foul-smelling cigar which caused the figure opposite him to wrinkle his nose, and turn to the door.

"So" began the cigar-smoker. "You have the book?"

The woman opposite him laughed.

"But of course, man. You do not think that _I_ would get it wrong?"

Her voice was beautiful: dark and dusky with a hint of a foreign accent. The man gulped.

"Of course not, Delphine. You are the best...that's why I hired you." Another puff of the cigar. "Where is it?"

The woman nodded to the third person, who produced a thick, leather-bound book in chains. Delphine took it, and handed it to the cigar-smoker, who held it as though it could go off at any moment. Which it could. He placed it on the table.

"You have the key?"

She laughed huskily again, and took a silver key from around her neck. It was incredibly ornate: the silversmith had had to work overnight to finish it in time; but imminent death focuses one's thoughts more than anything else can. With an elegant hand, Delphine unlocked the book, and opened it carefully.

"All here" she whispered, stroking the page with slender fingers. "Every single page."

The cigar-smoker gulped, and placed a heavy canvas bag on the table. Delphine took it delicately and untied the string around the neck. Inside, there were several thousand Ankh-Morporkian dollars. She tapped her cheek.

"Only this? I thought we had an...arrangement."

"Yes, well..." he loosened his tie nervously.

"You don't have it?"

The man didn't answer. Delphine handed the book back to the third man, and clasped her hands together.

"I can give it back to you when you have the money, Mr. Rundon" she declared silkily.

"I – I..."

"We can do it."

This voice came from the fourth man, sitting in the shadows.

"Mr. Oben-" began the cigar-smoker.

The man waved his hand.

"Quiet, Arthur. We can do it, Miss von Antwerzen."

"You have the money?"

The man smiled.

"I have."

He produced a green canvas bag, and stood up, walking over to Delphine. She back away slightly: Mr. Oben was tall and handsome, but incredibly intimidating, even for a woman such as herself. With one hand, he took the book from her bewildered assistant, and handed over the bag with the other. Warily, Delphine opened it, and gasped. Inside was a fantastic ruby, glowing in the dim light offered by the gas-lamp.

"Is this...?"

"Real. Yes. Two hundred thousand dollars worth" answered Mr. Oben.

"Albard..." began Mr. Rundon.

"Arthur?"

Mr. Oben turned back to him, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Er, is this entirely wise? We don't need the book right now..." he trailed off.

"Yes. It is wise. You won't be needing this money, Miss von Antwerzen." Albard Oben removed the bag from the table. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you. Farewell. We shall contact you when we require more. Here is my card."

He pressed a white pasteboard card into her hand. It read:

Albard Oben

32 Shamlegger Street

Ankh-Morpork

"Er, thank you. I'll bear that in mind."

Mr. Oben and Mr. Rundon left the room, bearing the book and the canvas bag. They left Delphine von Antwerzen with her assistant, staring at the ruby in the smoky light of the den.

Angua prowled the streets in the rain, letting the icy water plaster her blonde hair to her head. She couldn't bear to think about what Sally had said, mostly because she knew that the vampire was right. She couldn't keep running away: but then, what else could a werewolf do? She could hardly stay in Ankh-Morpork, not when Carrot was being such a fool, but where _could_ she go? Not to Uberwald: she'd had too many bad experiences there. Quirm was too respectable, Klatch was too hot...Perhaps Genua. Angua ducked into an alleyway and leant against the wall, her head pounding.

It was too much, all of this. It had been so much _simpler_ before the Watch. Before Carrot. She closed her eyes, trying to forget about him. When she opened them again, she noticed a figure moving furtively out of a building. Her copper senses, as Vimes would have called them, immediately told her something was wrong. The figure was joined by a taller person, moving normally, and they began to walk down the alleyway, away from Angua. She slunk after them, using the shadows as camouflage, her nostrils flaring. How dare they interrupt her now? With a sigh, she walked into a smaller alleyway, behind a restaurant, and Changed, leaving her clothes behind her. She growled in the back of her throat, and trotted after them as the rain began to beat down harder.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Rundon and Mr. Oben walked past the Unseen University, the former skulking in the shadows cast by the building, which loomed impressively. He didn't like things that loomed, as they usually meant trouble for him. Mr. Oben loomed. Suddenly, the tall man stopped.

"We're being followed" he stated.

Mr. Rundon whimpered, and looked around nervously. If he hadn't been wearing it to protect his identity, he would have removed his hat and gnawed at the brim. He was that kind of person: the exact opposite of Mr. Oben, who couldn't help looking strangely like Death when not in full view. He had the odd habit of looming ominously at unexpected moments which was shared with that particular anthropomorphic personification.

"Who by?" asked Mr. Rundon.

"Whom" corrected Mr. Oben absently.

"What?"

"By whom, not who by." Mr. Oben looked at the Palace, and smiled. "Sergeant, or should I say, Lady Delphine Angua von Uberwald, daughter of Baron Wolfgang von Uberwald, from...where, Mr. Rundon?"

"Uberwald?" hazarded his assistant.

"Correct, Mr. Rundon. I see you have been paying attention. Who is her, ahem, romantic interest?"

"Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, rightful king of Ankh-Morpork" answered Mr. Rundon.

This had been drummed into him so many times he could recite it in his sleep. Mr. Oben had forced him to learn the names and backgrounds of the most senior Watch officers.

"Good, Mr. Rundon. Arthur. Now, our little werewolf is going to get a shock, isn't she? Take this and drop it just in front of the entrance to that alley. _Without_, and this is important, without getting too close. Is that understood? Good."

He handed a little glass phial full of liquid to his companion.

"What's in there, Mr. Oben?"

"A mixture of aniseed oil and oil of scallatine, which has a rather...interesting effect on werewolves, as you will understand."

Mr. Rundon's expression showed that he didn't. Mr. Oben sighed.

"She has a very strong sense of smell, understand? And that phial contains some potent substances which, to a werewolf, will stink to high heaven. She'll be out of action for a few hours, maybe even a day, depends how close she gets to it. Now, deal with it now, and _do not get caught_!"

Vimes knocked on the Arch-chancellor's door, holding his helmet awkwardly under one arm.

"Come in!" commanded a rich voice.

He did so. The Arch-chancellor was sitting, no, _lolling_ behind his desk, his feet resting on his desk. An expensive crossbow was cradled in one arm, and a glass of sherry was grasped in the other hand. The Bursar was standing in front of the desk, trembling with fear. That was his normal state, so Vimes didn't pay much attention to it. Ridcully looked up.

"Afternoon, Sam" he said cheerfully.

"Same to you, Mustrum."

Gesturing with his glass of sherry, he pointed Vimes towards a chair in front of his desk. The Bursar looked across at him, and smiled perplexedly.

"Do _you_ happen to know where my spoon is? I know I had it yesterday" he remarked.

"Ignore him, poor fellow. He's on the dried frog pills again, gods help him. Want some dried frog pills, old chap?" queried Ridcully, raising his voice to speak to the Bursar.

"Frog pills?" replied the Bursar.

"In your pocket. The green things" explained the Arch-chancellor, miming patting his pockets down.

"Oh? _Oh_!"

The Bursar extracted a little box from his pocket and, with shaking fingers, opened it, produced two bright green pills and swallowed them. He gulped.

"Terribly sorry, sir; I'll come back later."

Bowing nervously to Vimes and Ridcully, the Bursar backed out, with a bemused expression on his round shiny face. As soon as the door clicked behind him, Ridcully turned to Vimes.

"What is it, Sam? Not meaning to be rude, but you understand you have no jurisdiction, as such, on University grounds."

"I have jurisdiction if the event is going to affect the city, Mustrum. _My_ city."

"Go on" encouraged Ridcully, pouring Vimes a glass of water.

He took it gladly.

"Well. There is, or rather, _was_ a book in your Library called the Octavo Explained" he began.

Ridcully frowned, and took a sip of his sherry.

"A book was stolen from the Library, which we later recovered. That book was on eldritch lace-making; we don't think that was the original intention of the thief. I went to the Library, and the Assistant Librarian showed me the gap in the shelf, which that book should have occupied. It was next to the Octavo Explained: I think that's what was meant to be stolen. The Librarian unlocked it for me, but the book was blank. Which begs the question: _where is that book_?"

The Arch-chancellor leant back in his chair and produced his pipe. He lit it, and studied the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Interesting. In that case, Sam, you may have access to our staff. Within reason. And I will supervise you, naturally. The Octavo. I would start with Mister Stibbons, personally. He might be able to use that thaumometer of his to find it. He's in the High Energy Magic Building. I recommend you go and fetch another officer, by the way. You may find it easier to, ahem, divide and conquer" he advised.

"Very well. I'll send a clacks to Pseudopolis Yard, if you don't mind" responded Vimes.

"Yes, yes, of course! If you give me the message, I can tell one of the bledlows to send it for you."

Vimes was about to protest, but then changed his mind.

"Thank you, yes."

He produced his cheap notebook and scribbled a message down onto a clean sheet, tore it out of the book, and handed it to Ridcully.

"The HEM is down that corridor, to the left. I strongly recommend you knock first: you never know what they're doing in there. Well, goodbye, Sam."

Vimes nodded, and went outside and down the corridor, towards the High Energy Magic Building. There was an impressive, and very solid looking oak door, at which he knocked tentatively. He didn't like dealing with wizards.

"Hang on a moment!" called a voice from inside.

There was a small noise, like a firework exploding.

"Damn" said the same voice, and coughed. "I told you we shouldn't have tried to explode Stutthammer's Theory at the same time as Doubtscrew's Proposal of Thaumic Uncertainty."

There was a pause.

"That wasn't Doubtscrew's Proposal" said another voice.

Another pause.

"Really? What the hell was it, then?"

"I don't know, I thought you were looking after that!"

"No, I was taking a reading from Hex: I thought _you_ were looking after Doubtscrew!"

"Well...at least we know that Strutthammer doesn't calculate. The slood ratings were much higher than he had originally stated, and the blit rating... off the scale."

Vimes cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry." The door opened, and a young man with glasses looked out. "Hello. I think you've got the wrong door..."

"Mr. Stibbons?"

"Er, yes, that's me." He looked at Vimes nervously, noticing the Watch badge. "Have I done something wrong?"

"I wish to make enquiries about a stolen book of magic."

"You'd better come in." The wizard showed Vimes in. "Most of the smoke's cleared now: I don't _think_ it's dangerous."

Typical wizard, thought Vimes. Do things first, wonder if they're dangerous afterwards.

Mr. Stibbons cleared a chair of papers covered in neat, rounded writing and nervously ushered Vimes towards it.

"Please sit down. Now, how can I help you? Don't mind the mess, it's only slood. Nothing to worry about."

"A book called the Octavo Explained has gone missing. I understand from the Arch-chancellor that you may be able to find it. With a...thaumometer?"

"Ah. I'm afraid it doesn't quite work like that. You would have to go to every house in the city and hold it outside the door to find out if they had it. I may be able to determine which part of the city it is in, though, If that would help."

Vimes nodded. He noticed the second person he had heard through the door standing in front of a very peculiar...machine. There was a large glass sphere, that was certain, and many, many pipes coming from it, some of which seemed to pass through each other and go back to exactly the same place they came from, serving no apparent purpose. Mr. Stibbons saw him looking.

"That's Hex. Our thinking machine. I'm going to link the thaumometer to Hex, and then ask him to search for an unfamiliar magical presence" he explained.

"You can do that?" asked Vimes incredulously.

"Oh yes. Hex can cover a much wider area than the thaumometer on its own. Wonderful thing. Alex, just connect this to the input socket, will you? I'll program him: I think I've worked out how he works with the thaumometer now" ordered Stibbons. "Commander Vimes, can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you. I'd just like to know where this damned book is. I have a horrible feeling about it."

"I'm not surprised. It _is_ called the Octavo Explained."

"Is that bad?"

"Very. You know Professor Rincewind? He looked in the Octavo once, and he's never been able to learn any spell other than the Octavo spell that lodged itself into his brain. At least, that's his excuse." Stibbons sniffed. "Have you got that ready, Alex?"

"Yes, I think so." His assistant turned around. "Is it supposed to be glowing blue?"

"I think so. What kind of blue?" queried Stibbons.

"Turquoise, I think, possibly with a hint of duck-egg" answered Alex.

"Oh gods, what have you done now?"

Vimes rubbed his face wearily as Ponder Stibbons hurried over to the thinking machine. This was going to be a long day.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter is for Minimog16uk for assisting me with the geography of Ankh-Morpork. Sorry I haven't updated sooner, I've had a bit of a hectic week. Hopefully I'll be updating faster this time.**

"Come on, I went through this with you the other day! Don't attach the thaumometer to the output!"

Vimes looked down the corridor again, in the vague hope that Angua or Sally might have arrived in the two minutes since he had last looked.

"Now, _that's_ the right colour. That sort of royal blue. _Not_ turquoise. Commander Vimes?" called Ponder.

Vimes returned.

"Have you found it?" he asked.

"I think so. Hex, can you locate an unusual amount of thaumic activity within Ankh-Morpork walls?"

+++Give me a few minutes+++

There was a whirring noise, and an hourglass popped out in front of the glass globe. When it emptied, it turned over again. Ants ran down a slim glass tube to a larger chamber sitting on top of the globe. Eventually, the hourglass went back behind the mass of tubes and Hex settled down.

+++I have your answer+++

"Well?"

+++There is an unusual amount of thaumic activity in the area known as the Shades+++

"Can you be more precise?" queried Vimes impatiently.

+++I believe I can+++Shamlegger Street, The Shades+++I do not know which house it is+++I can, however, tell you that the thaumic presence is very strong+++Is there anything else you wish me to do?+++

"What? No, no, that's fine, thanks" replied Vimes, rubbing his eyes.

Shamlegger Street. That was going to be fun.

"Um, thank you, Mr. Stibbons. Is there anyone in the University who might be able to shed some light on what you can do with the Octavo spells?"

Ponder shrugged.

"Perhaps Dr. Hix. The professor of ne – sorry, I mean Post-Mortem Communications."

Vimes raised an eyebrow, and Ponder shrugged again.

"Well, thank you."

Vimes went outside into the corridor, where Sally was waiting.

"Afternoon, Constable von Humpeding."

"Hello, Mister. Vimes."

They began to walk down the corridor.

"Did you find anything?" asked Sally.

"The book is in Shamlegger Street, apparently" answered Vimes thoughtfully.

"That's quite precise. How do you...?"

"Mister Stibbon's thinking machine. I don't trust it though: you can't trust wizards."

"Where are we going now?"

"The local necromancer."

They walked a little further.

"Sally...has Angua mentioned anything to you?" asked Vimes.

"I've talked to her about Carrot, if that's what you mean" replied Sally. "I think she's going to do something stupid."

Vimes shook his head.

"I _told_ Carrot, but he wouldn't listen to me."

They had been walking downhill for a while, and now they reached a heavy door with the sign `Department of Post-Mortem Communications' written on a shiny brass plaque. The letters: `Necro' were scratched out underneath. Vimes smiled.

"Can't even call themselves necromancers anymore."

"Actually, we prefer the term `Post-Mortem Communications'" declared a man's voice.

The door swung open, revealing a tall man in a black cloak.

"You were listening to our conversation?" asked Sally, horrified.

"Oh, yes. Don't look at me like that! It is my duty, as bearer of the skull ring, to behave badly, although within the statutes set out by Arch-chancellor Bowell. Welcome to my lair! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!" He cleared his throat. "Sorry about that. Skull ring, and all that. What are you here for?"

Vimes looked hard at Dr. Hix, and then shrugged.

"I'd like to know some more about the Octavo."

Dr. Hix let them in.

"I'm afraid I can't really help you there. Unless of course you want me to contact the author, which may be a little, ahem, difficult." He gave a small laugh that one might hear from a teacher.

"Oh yes? And why's that?" queried Vimes.

"The Octavo is the book that the Creator left behind when he created the Disc" explained the doctor.

"Ah. That may be a little difficult, then. What about the Octavo: Explained?"

Dr. Hix stroked his chin.

"Charlie! Bring the ledger over here!" he called into the crypt. "The author _should_ be in there, if that's what you want. I don't expect he wants it though."

A skeleton walked up to them, clutching a heavy and extremely dusty book. Vimes looked hard at him, trying to work out whether he was an elaborate trick. The skeleton handed the book to Dr. Hix, and looked at Vimes.

"What're you staring at?" he asked. "Never seen a set of bones before? You've got `em too, you know."

Vimes shook himself.

"Sorry. I've never seen a, well, a _live_ skeleton before."

"Really? I have. Even before Charlie came. It's rather a knack I have" replied Dr. Hix smugly.

Sally gave him a Look, and he shrugged.

"Skull ring, remember? Anyway..."

He dropped the book onto the stone slab he used as a desk, and opened it, producing a huge cloud of dust. He sneezed hard, and doubled over.

"Sorry about that: we never open this one."

He sneezed again, and Sally picked her way over to the table.

"Is this alphabetical?" she asked.

Dr. Hix nodded. She found O, and ran a delicate finger down the page, leaving a trail free of dust.

"O...ob...och...here it is, Octavo...Octavo Explained. Here we go. Author...Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches the Second." Sally looked up. "What a strange name."

Dr. Hix straightened up.

"Son of the famous necromancer."

"I thought you didn't like that word?" said Sally.

He waved it away.

"Oh, it's fine if I'm referring to someone else" he declared airily. "He was the son of Achmed the Mad, Klatchian necromancer. He wrote the Necrotelicomnicon, I believe. And Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches Book of Humorous Cat Stories. "

"Humorous cat stories?" queried Sally.

"They say that's what drove him mad in the first place, poor bugger." Dr. Hix shook his head. "I _believe_ I can summon Achmed, if that's what you'd like."

"Yes, if you can" said Vimes.

Dr. Hix nodded, and cleared his throat.

"Bring the Candelabra of Ancient Darkness forward, oh foul wraith!" he declaimed.

Charlie gave him a funny look.

"You what? And who are you calling a foul wraith?"

"The Candelabra of Ancient Darkness? Oh come on, we did this the other day!"

"Refresh my memory, will you?"

Dr. Hix sighed heavily.

"Go and get the candlestick, Charlie."

The skeleton went to the back of the crypt and produced an ancient golden candlestick, which he fitted with three white candles. This he placed on a bracket on the wall and lit it with a taper.

"Bring the Skulls of Wisdom and Integrity" instructed the necromancer.

Charlie swore under his breath and dug out two yellowing skulls from a cupboard.

"And align the Tomes of our Ancestors" droned Dr. Hix.

"I think this _is_ my ancestor" muttered Charlie, looking at one of the skulls in his bony arm.

Dumping them on the table, he produced a huge book from underneath the table and placed it next to them.

"Are we ready?"

Charlie nodded glumly.

"Then we shall begin." Dr. Hix cleared his throat again. "Fathers of the Ancients, come unto me" he droned. "Lend me your Powers and your Strengths..."

This was where Vimes switched off and began to look around. Charlie was perched precariously on the edge of the stone table, and flicking listlessly through an edition of _The Times_, pausing at the crossword section. He produced a short pencil from the edge of the slab, and mused over the first clue. Nothing to go on there. Sally cleared her throat, causing Vimes to turn around. She nodded to the far bookshelf, where a thin, dustless volume was leaning against a skull-shaped candle-holder, no doubt made in the Street of Cunning Artificers, holding a well-dribbled candle. Casually, Vimes wandered over towards it and read the title.

THE GENTEEL ART OF NECROMANCY

Vimes shrugged at Sally, and turned back to Dr. Hix. Still no leads. The necromancer finished his chanting, and a ghostly figure arose from the slab. He was tall and stick thin, with the ghost of a Klatchian turban perched precariously on his head.

"_What the hell have you woken me up for?" _it demanded.

"Greetings, oh venerable and wise old one" declaimed Dr. Hix.

"_Well?"_

Dr. Hix cleared his throat and looked across at Vimes.

"Oh wise one, we wish to enquire about your excellent book, the _Octavo Explained_."

"_That old thing? Oh, I don't want to talk about that one. Can't you ask me about the Second Book of Humorous Cat Stories? I _like_ that one."_

"Erm, no, oh wise one. We wish to know what your other book is concerning."

The figure waved a transparent hand.

"_It's a book for students. Practical experiments, that sort of thing. You know."_

"Is it dangerous?" asked Vimes.

Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches the Second looked at him.

"_Oh no, of course not. It's only an explanation of the most powerful spells in the world. Of course it's not dangerous!" _

He gave the commander a withering look.

"Can anyone perform these experiments?" queried Sally.

The ancient necromancer turned around and smiled slightly at her.

"_Yes, my dear, I believe so."_

Sally looked hard at him, and eventually he gave up and turned away.

"_May I return to my peaceful spirit world now?" _he demanded, glaring at Dr. Hix.

"Well, actually there are a few experiments in the Genteel Art of Necro- Post-Mortem Communications that I'd like to try..."

Achmed stared at him.

"_No"_ he said simply, and vanished.

Dr. Hix looked at the space where he had been standing.

"Damn. There were some good experiments in there. Oh well." He turned to Vimes. "Is that all, commander?"

Vimes nodded.

"Good. In that case, if you wouldn't mind..."

Dr Hix indicated in the politest way possible that Vimes should really be leaving.

"Very well. Come on, Constable von Humpeding. Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Hix nodded, and they left.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to Nimbus Llewelyn for beta-reading this chapter.**

Mr. Rundon skulked in the shadows, immediately drawing more attention to himself than he would if he had strolled right up the street. He was strangely aware of the glass phial in his sweaty hand, and what would happen if he got caught. Vimes was rumoured to be particularly severe when it came to Assault on a Watch Officer. Mr. Rundon gulped, and crept forwards. The werewolf was sitting on her haunches, her muscles tensed and ready to spring. Mr. Rundon's finger closed around the phial, and he moved forward a little. Angua's nose twitched, and a low growl came from her the back of her throat. Mr. Rundon whimpered very slightly, and then, with great effort, he raised his scrawny arm and tossed the phial at her feet. It shattered immediately, releasing an incredibly pungent smell that made his eyes water and his sinuses give up at once. This was nothing, however, compared with Angua's reaction. She howled in pain, and scampered away, making pitiful whimpering noises. The oils mingled with the rain and various bits of liquid debris that covered the street in a slippery sheen, making walking conditions even more treacherous. Mr. Rundon half-stumbled, half-ran over to Mr. Oben, who smiled grimly.

"Not bad, Arthur. Not bad at all. Miss von Uberwald will have a little sinus trouble for a while. And now we; that's you and I, Mr. Rundon, will get over to our, ha, safe-house, and-"

"Lie low?" suggested Mr. Rundon hopefully.

"Aha, _no_, Arthur. If we lie low, it will make us look guilty: do you see? If we go out and act we have done nothing wrong, then His Grace Vimes will most likely not suspect us. That is the main problem with the Watch these days. No imagination...what with their trolls with rocks in their heads, they have no hope" declared Mr. Oben, punctuating the last two words with two heavy slaps on Mr. Rundon's shoulders.

It felt like a whole ham had been smashed down onto his weak shoulder. He whimpered.

"Come, Arthur. We must...how do they say it, in their patois? Oh yes – split."

He pronounced the final word as though it was a rat in his path that he had to walk around gingerly. Mr. Rundon nodded reluctantly, and they did indeed split, back into the mist and shadows of the Shades.

Once they were back in the draughty corridor outside Dr. Hix's office (or, more properly, crypt), Vimes looked at his watch: the one that he had been presented with years ago by, as it said on the highly polished golden back: _A Watch, from, your old Freinds in the Watch._ Typical Carrot, he thought. The abuse to the comma was a clear give-away.

"Half-past five, Mister Vimes. Shall I send a clacks to the Yard? I can bring the sedan chair" offered Sally.

Vimes gave her a Look.

"Point taken. I'll go back to the Yard and write this up, shall I?"

"Yes. You do that. And tell Carrot to keep his eye on the gates – get A. E. to pay extra attention to the reports; although I doubt whoever stole this would be stupid enough to run away so soon."

"Yes sir."

Sally saluted and let Vimes go past her to the staircase, before following him out into the cold grey evening.

A bedraggled werewolf burst into Pseudopolis Yard, her breathing ragged and hoarse from howling, and leapt up at Carrot, who was sitting at the main desk trying to make sense of some reports. Angua pawed at his armour, her expression pitiful, and he quickly got the message. He led her through to the spare room that was sometimes used by the officers on night duty who didn't want to go back to their house in the early hours of the morning, and filled a bowl of hot water for her from the cracked basin in the room which could broadly be called an en-suite, before adding a few drops of liquid from a little phial he carried in his pocket. Then he sat down on the bed and waited for her to Change. When she did, she leant over the steaming bowl of water and inhaled deeply. Carrot produced a towel from somewhere, and laid it over her head to concentrate the effect of the steam.

"What happened?" asked Carrot after a few minutes.

Angua raised her head slightly.

"Oil of Scallatine" she answered breathily, before dipping her head again.

Carrot's hands clenched into fists by his sides. If there was anything he hated, it was the scent bombs that kept popping up around the city, to prevent Angua tracking criminals. Peppermint and aniseed bombs weren't as bad as oil of scallatine, though. That could stop a werewolf dead in its tracks and send it packing. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Carrot was about to call `Come in!' when he remembered that Angua was still naked, and that the person on the other side of the door could well be a human officer. With amazing swiftness, he tugged a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her, tying it at one side.

"Come in!" he called.

Sally came in, clutching her helmet under one arm. Seeing Angua kneeling on the floor with the bowl, she looked up at Carrot.

"Scent bomb? What was it this time?"

"Oil of scallatine."

Sally winced.

"Mister Vimes says to tell Constable Pessimal to put extra guards on that gates – this book is dangerous."

Carrot nodded again.

"I'll do that. Where is Mister Vimes?"

"It's nearly six o'clock" replied Sally.

"Ah."

Angua raised her head from the basin, making the towel fall down onto her shoulders.

"I'll be fine soon. It's just..."

"You don't have to explain. I know how it feels" declared Sally.

"How?"

"Even the _smell_ of garlic has that effect on us."

"I doubt it's this bad" said Angua.

"You wouldn't believe it."

At this point Carrot intervened. Although Angua and Sally were _almost_ friendly with each other, it didn't do to forget that they were werewolf and vampire, and would behave as such under pressure.

"I'll see to it, Constable" he repeated in a firmer voice.

Sally took the hint, and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Angua pulled the towel back over her damp hair, and inhaled deeply.

"You can leave me here now, Carrot" she said, her voice muffled.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Tell A.E about the guards, and finish your reports. I'm off for the night in half an hour, and I _think_ you're off in fifteen minutes. We'd better make the most of it."

Carrot smiled, and went out of the room, leaving Angua kneeling by the basin.

As Vimes sat in the carriage on the way to his mansion, his mind was buzzing. This robbery was puzzling him. First of all, it would be no mean feat to find the thief. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods knew they were enough damned megalomaniacs in the city who would think that they could change the world with their little spell book. Well, of course they could; but not in the way they expected. It was surprising how many people's last words were "They said I was mad, but I will prove them wrong! Mwahahahahaha!!" because sometimes narrative convention was too strong to resist, but the problem was that all he had to go on was that the book was currently in the Shades, and there were enough lunatics there to keep the Watch busy for centuries.

At that moment, the carriage stopped.

"Here, sir" said the driver.

Vimes absently paid him and got out, back into the cold clammy mists. The Ramkin; or, more properly now, the Vimes mansion was barely visible; still, Wilikins was standing at the door with The Book, peering out at the street. Catching sight of Vimes, he visibly relaxed and bowed.

"Good evening, sir. Lady Ramkin is out in the dragon pens" he said.

Vimes nodded.

"Thank you, Wilikins."  
He took the cold and slightly damp book from the butler and went inside, stomping up the stairs to the nursery where Young Sam was waiting. It was five to six: perfect timing, as usual, just enough time to sit down and get started. Pushing open the door, Vimes immediately saw his son sitting up expectantly in his cot, and the world went soft, as usual. He sat down on the rocking chair next to Young Sam and opened The Book.

**Where's my cow?**

**Is that my cow?**

**It goes `Baa!'**

**It is a sheep!**

**That is not my cow!**

Now...where could you get a precise replica of a book like that? From the wizards, of course; but maybe there hadn't even been a real book in the Library in the first place. Maybe it belonged to some old spinster in the outskirts of the Shades...but why would somebody be sent to find it? Unless _that_ was a decoy; but it brought attention to the real book, and so to the thief...

**Where's my cow?**

**Is that my cow?**

**It goes `Neigh!'**

**It is a horse!**

**That is not my cow!**

Damn. This was so complicated already, and he'd only just found out about it. Where could you get a replica...

**Where's my cow?**

**Is that my cow?**

**It goes `Hruughh!'**

**It is a hippopotamus!**

**That is not my cow!**

Vimes finished the story, and left Young Sam gurgling himself to sleep in his cot to find Sybil. She was sitting tensely in the first drawing room and attempting to knit by the roaring open fire. She almost jumped up when she saw Vimes come in, but then remembered her burden and sat back down.

"Evening, Sam" she said, trying to sound casual. "How's Young Sam?"

"Asleep" answered Vimes shortly, his mind still attacking the tangled problem of the book theft.

"That's good. Do sit down, Sam, you're making the place look untidy."

Vimes relented, and collapsed into the chair opposite his wife. There was a silence, broken only by the crackle and thump of another log tumbling down onto to the grate.

"Did you get the plate back from the Street of Cunning Artificers?" asked Sybil.

Vimes stood up suddenly  
"Cunning Artificers, of _course_!" he muttered.

"You forgot it again, didn't you" said Sybil sadly. "You _know_ it's an antique! Mr. Ronford says it's an original Fettolini."

Vimes waved it away.

"I _did_ forget it, as a matter of fact; but..."

He looked at his watch.

"Damn. I don't have time to explain now. Won't be long, dear."

"Watch business?" sighed Sybil, although she already knew the answer.

"Yes. Sorry, dear."

Sybil waved him away, out of the door.

"Go on then. But I don't see why you can't just send a clacks to the Yard."

"This is important – very important. And the clacks is playing up again."

"You need to-"

"Get it seen to" finished Vimes. "I know, but you know how it is..."

Sybil sighed again.

"Yes, I do. Go on, Sam. I'll tell Wilikins to put off dinner for an hour or so."

"Thank you, dear. Sorry."

She ushered him out of the door. When she was absolutely sure that he had gone, she sagged down into her chair. Well, she couldn't tell him now. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. But then she would wait, and wait, until...well, until it happened. Sam had to notice sooner or later, surely? And it was far better to tell him before it got too obvious. Sybil rubbed her eyes, and turned back to her knitting. She would tell him next time. Definitely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Apologies for the huge delay on updating this one, I don't have any real excuses for it...here it is now, anyway, and I'll try and update the next chapter faster. Thanks.**

Vimes ran down the wet streets, not bothering to get a coach. He could get to the Street of Cunning Artificers faster on foot; most probably. He skidded to a halt at the end of the street as an over-loaded cart turned a corner, its back end swinging out behind it, splashing up what, in any other city, could have been called water. However, this was Ankh-Morpork. The substance was almost certainly liquid, albeit a rather worrying greyish brown liquid, and that was about all you could say for it. Vimes swore under his breath as the liquid soaked through his cheap boots. He'd had to keep them secret from Sybil: she tended to get Willikins to dispose of them and replace them with the expensive real leather ones which lasted for years. He had taken to leaving the new shoes at Pseudopolis Yard, where they would inevitably be appropriated by Corporal Nobbs and never seen again. If he was in a generous mood, Vimes would drop them off near Brass Bridge (whilst holding his nose) for Foul Ole Ron and his gang. Whichever way, they hardly ever ended up on his feet.

Once the cart had passed, Vimes continued down the streets, turning corners every now and then, his feet telling him exactly where he was.

"Evening, Mister Vimes," sidled a voice from the mist.

"Evening, Nobby," replied Vimes.

Nobby Nobbs edged out of the shadows, followed by the hulking shape of Sergeant Detritus.

"Ev'ning, sir," said the troll, saluting.

Vimes nodded, and Detritus stood still, and Nobby produced a dog-end from behind his ear.

"You're not on duty tonight, are you?" he asked, taking a drag.

"No, I'm on my way to the Street of Cunning Artificers."

Nobby nodded.

"Me and Detritus are on for a couple of hours; we just took over from Carrot."

"Yeah," rumbled Detritus behind them.

"Shouldn't Carrot have been on with Angua?"

"Erm..." Nobby looked away awkwardly.

"What, Nobby?" asked Vimes impatiently.

"Well..."

Vimes looked at his watch, and swore mildly.

"I've got to go now, you'll have to tell me later – it's quite probable that somebody is about to get killed."

Nobby shrugged.

"This _is_ Ankh-Morpork."

"But this person is, most likely, a relatively harmless book binder who is probably an old man."

"What did he do?" asked Detritus.

"His job," answered Vimes, already walking away.

Nobby shrugged up at Detritus.

"He's going to go spare," he said gloomily. "I just know it."

"Maybe we should have told him," suggested the troll.

"Nah. He'll find out soon enough: Carrot'll tell him. He's going to go absolutely bursar when he finds out about sarge."

With that pearl of wisdom, they wandered off into the street.

The lights were on in the Street of Cunning Artificers: they always were, even in the daytime. The sort of work that went on in the street needed strong lights and fine tools. Walking up to the nearest door, Vimes removed his helmet and knocked. After a few minutes, it was opened by a short woman with shiny black hair.

"Hello?" she said.

"I'm looking for a book binder," replied Vimes.

The woman looked him up and down, taking in the scruffy uniform and cheap, worn boots.

"Fourteenth door on the left," she answered suspiciously.

"Thank you."

Vimes walked down the road, counting the doors carefully under his breath. From each one he heard different sounds: the soft _tink_ of tiny hammers on jewellery; the quiet crackles from a miniature forge; and, more increasingly, the gentle _clink_ of micromail being made. It was, apparently, the up and coming Thing, as advertised by the beautiful and mysterious `Jewels'. And, apparently, it didn't chafe, which was always useful for a city dwarf used to finer things. Female dwarves had taken to dressing up in micromail shirts and long leather skirts, and staring defiantly at people as if daring them to notice.

When he reached the fourteenth door, Vimes knocked, and waited. The door was opened by an old man, slightly hunched over, with round, owlish glasses and wispy white hair that showed signs of having been red.

"Hello, sir, and what can I do for you?" he asked.

"Commander Vimes, City Watch," replied Vimes. "I'd like to talk to you, Mr..."

The man frowned, but then shrugged and opened the door fully.

"Arnolds. Very well; although I'm sure I don't know why."

Vimes went in, and was struck by the neatness of the workshop. There was a mini-forge in the corner, still glowing red, and book-bindings and calligraphy pens on the tables. The only untidy table was in the corner opposite the forge: the skeleton of a book was sitting there, with the old and new bindings next to them, obviously a working project.

"I would offer you a drink, Commander, but I'm afraid I don't have any." The old man remained standing, although it obviously pained him, and gazed hard at Vimes. "What do you want?"

Vimes removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.

"I'd like to know about a commission."

The man removed his glasses and began to clean them distractedly on his sleeve.

"Yes? I have lots of commissions."

"This would have been special. The...customer would have been mysterious, they probably wouldn't want anyone to know who they were. Did you have any customers like that? Who didn't give any details away?"

Mr. Arnolds replaced his glasses and squinted.

"This is the Street of Cunning Artificers. _All_ my customers are mysterious. What sort of commission was it?"

"A replica of a book; a book of magic. All the pages were blank."

The book-binder sat down on a wooden, high-backed chair and regarded Vimes carefully.

"I don't remember that commission, I'm afraid," he replied.

Somebody cleared their throat. With street-trained reflexes, Vimes whirled around to see a tall blonde in an unassuming and quite severe brown dress and, oddly, leather gauntlets. She smiled weakly, and he lowered the sword he had automatically raised.

"Thank you," she said, nodding slightly. "What's wrong, Father?"

"The Commander wanted to know about a commission, of a blank book of magic." Mr. Arnolds peered short-sightedly from behind his glasses. "We didn't have anything to do with that, did we?"

She went white, and clenched one leather-clad fist.

"Excuse us, Father. I'll deal with this," she reassured with a wan smile.

He waved a hand wearily.

"Very well."

She walked over to the forge in the corner and began to poke the glowing coals, trying to rekindle it. Intrigued, Vimes followed.

"You are Commander Vimes of the City Watch?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.

"Yes."

She nodded to herself.

"I'm Lucy Arnolds – apprentice book-binder. I...looked after that commission. Father doesn't know." She paused. "I wouldn't have done it, ordinarily, but...it was a _lot_ of money, and we're desperate. Father doesn't know that either. We look after the finances, he looks after the books."

Vimes looked around.

"We?" he queried.

"My brother helps me – that's Michael. We deal with this commission."

She moved away from the forge to a long low bookshelf along the wall, full of elegantly bound volumes. Pulling out a particularly battered green ledger, Lucy placed it on the top of the shelf and opened it, running a finger down the page.

"I made a record. There wasn't much information, but I did what I could." Her finger rested on a line of round hand-writing. "Here it is. Delphine von Antwerzen, 21 Sweetheart Lane, The Shades. She requested a blank copy of The Octavo: Explained, and...well, it was a _lot_ of money. I didn't ask any more questions than I needed to."

Vimes nodded, although he knew it would be a false address.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll send an officer over tomorrow to ask some more questions."

Lucy nodded, looking relieved.

"I'll make sure I'm in. I don't want to worry Father. He's been very highly strung since my mother...passed away."

She looked anxiously over at Mr. Arnolds, who was gluing a book spine together, his glasses pushed up high onto the bridge of his nose. Nodding again, Vimes stepped out into the rainy street and rammed his helmet back onto his head.

He made it to Sator Square before he realised that he'd forgotten the plate.

A foggy drizzle set later that night, making the conditions perfect for the crime that was about to be committed. On the Street of Cunning Artificers, several lights were still on; but not in the small book-binder's shop that Vimes had visited earlier. A short, thick-set figure crept along under the eaves of the workshops, counting the door numbers carefully. It wouldn't do to remove the wrong target. Finally he reached number fourteen and allowed himself a grim smile. The locks on this door were ancient – it was hardly worth paying someone as much as he was being paid for this job. There was a small click, and the shadowy figure crept into the book-binder's shop. The room was lit only by the dull smoulder of the forge, but the assassin could see just as well in the dark as he did in the light. He was an assassin rather than an Assassin – he was too poor to be considered by the Guild, and too thick for a scholarship; so he chose to become a jobbing murderer, catering to the seedy underworld of Ankh-Morpork. Looking around, he saw a tall figure at the forge, her hair swept up into a net, working in the dark. This was his target. The assassin drew his knife and raised it above his shoulder. As he moved forward, she turned. A red-hot glowing brand was gripped in one gauntleted hand, and an unholy grin was dimly visible in the orange light.

"No strings attached?" she asked quietly. "This looks like a string to me."

Raising her hand, she thrust the brand at the assassin, who wondered briefly if the Guild of Thieves had been such a bad idea after all.


End file.
